


Sunshine

by seashadows



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Intercrural Sex, M/M, Shameless Smut, prim and proper Dori KNOWS THINGS, slight food porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:22:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4357823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seashadows/pseuds/seashadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Among the craftspeople's stalls, Thorin Oakenshield finds an unexpected kindred spirit. Pre-canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunshine

Market days in the towns of Ered Luin where Dwarves resided saw the emergence of the Dwarves from craft and hearth, from forge and study and beds for the old and feeble, to a bustle of crowds and to stalls where jewels twinkled in the mountain sunlight. In old Gabilgathol, where crumbling buildings of the First Age surrounded the newer homes of Broadbeams, Firebeards, and refugees of Erebor alike, market stalls made the center of the old city shine with colorful food and crafts. 

It was on these days that Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór who was once King Under the Mountain, took time from the humble work of his smithy and emerged into the too-modest crowds of his people. Today was such a day, and the warm sun of late spring shone down on the top of his head, warming his loose hair. It wasn’t yet stifling hot, which was a relief, as he was already sweating from a morning spent pounding away at a large order of metal horseshoes for a traveling Mannish peddler. The Man’s horse, just as disagreeable as he was and smelling slightly better, had thrown a shoe, and the peddler insisted on staying until he had received a wagonload of spares. 

It was a sad thing, Thorin reflected, that he was only relieved that the peddler was willing to pay. Dealing with Dwarves had the curious effect of tightening Men’s purse-strings, and hiding Elves’ purses altogether. 

He stopped near the breadmaker’s stall and sniffed in deeply. A fortunate breeze brought the smells of baked oat bread and buckwheat into his nose, and he widened his nostrils to better take them in. Dís could bake flatbread that was far better than Máir’s, he knew, but Dís was far from the market and his stomach was grumbling. A baked lunch wouldn’t go amiss, and he had the coin for it today…

“Oof!” he shouted in surprise, abruptly jostled from his thoughts as someone slammed into his side and stomach. A bulky someone, by the pain blooming under his ribs. “What –“ He clutched himself just under the lungs and tried to gasp the wind back into himself while he looked for the Dwarf who had hit him. 

That Dwarf hadn’t gone far. In fact, as Thorin watched, he backtracked and began to wring his hands. “Oh, dear,” he said. “Oh, dear, I’m very sorry, your Grace.” He had a handsome, finely-braided red-brown beard and hair to match, although both of them were streaked with gray that was incongruous with his smooth cheeks and unlined forehead. “How very careless of me!”

“Peace, the fault was mine.” Thorin coughed and made a slight bow, as much as his protesting lungs would allow. “I ought to have watched where I was standing.” He’d seen this Dwarf before, he realized. He was, however, a bit less recognizable than usual without a tiny brother hanging off his beard and another one – far older and lankier than the more docile baby, near grown himself – scampering ahead. “Thorin Thráinul, at your service.”

“And Dori Rorul, at yours and your family’s,” said Dori. His bow was much deeper and more formal, rich in the tiny gestures of old Erebor. It was many a time that Thorin had seen Balin drop his wrists in the same way, or incline his head in just that same swoop. 

“And your family’s as well,” Thorin echoed, amused, and mimicked Dori’s bow. Care and attention to detail merited the same courtesy, as any smith knew well. 

Dori’s face, classically wide with its round cheeks and fashionably broad nose, turned red as a deep fire opal catching the sunlight. “Good gracious, if I had known my king had such manners,” and here his voice dropped to a faint almost-whisper. “Goodness.”

Thorin cleared his throat with a soft, discomfited _hrm_. “Pardon my intrusion into your market day,” he said, and paused to rake his eyes down the material of Dori’s short-robe and trousers. The robe was a deep green that suited the color of his hair, and made of a thick, obviously high-quality material besides. Patterns that almost suggested Ereborean-style runes or the lines of the Blue Mountains themselves chopped a jagged line against his sleeves and down the button-placket. Perhaps this one was a crafter. “Were you visiting Mistress Ilána’s thread stall, by chance?” 

“Yes!” Dori exclaimed. “However did you guess?”

“Your robe,” Thorin said. No, that wasn’t nearly enough of an explanation. He sounded like a blitherer, or a drunkard. “I thought it might be handmade. Forgive me, I should have learned of your craft long before this.”

“No, no,” Dori said with a shake of his head as he moved aside to make room for a passing Dwarrowdam with a full basket over each arm. “No, a king mustn’t know the details of every subject’s life, must he? He’d have no time in the day to rule, elsewise.”

Now Thorin felt his own cheeks and neck heat with a spreading blush. “I am no king here, Master Dori, only a smith of the Blue Mountains,” he said. The words came easily enough from his lips now, though in years past, similar ones had been torn from his throat and his dignity forced to humiliation along with them. “You do not need to make obeisance to me.”

“It’s only good manners,” said Dori, a sound that might have been a huff flavoring the timbre of his voice. “Now, I do need thread, but Láni will – oh, pardon, Mistress _Ilána_.” He shook his head and chuckled, and Thorin saw that the sun made patterns of nearly-golden rays on the crown. Their shifting rays were a hypnotic, and oddly attractive, sight. “See, this is what happens when I am allowed to grow overly familiar.”

They could dance in circles like this all day, with these masterful courtesies that allowed for nothing but thanks upon thanks and pardons for slights imagined by the giver. Thorin had grown up with court manners – while his grandfather had eschewed niceties in the later stages of his sickness, the courtiers had not. He knew the dance well. “You need thread, and I need bread,” he said. “Will you join me at the breadmaker’s stall? My coin is yours for this meal.”

Dori’s mouth fell into an O. “Yes, if it please you,” he said. Thorin felt his eyes narrow, and the thought crossed his mind that perhaps few had been generous enough to this Dwarf for him to recognize it. “Although I do have the coin.”

“I inconvenienced you,” Thorin told him. “The pleasure is mine.”

“Then I will join you, since you insist so kindly,” Dori said, “provided Master Máir doesn’t throw me out of the market altogether for indecision.” He extended a crooked elbow and Thorin put his arm through, although it took every bit of his hard-schooled skill not to let his face form an expression of surprise. This was another of the proper gestures of the court; where had Dori learned it? Perhaps, if Balin tutored his small brother, he’d taken to carrying tales. 

The selection at the breadmaker’s stall was still hot enough to make steam rise into the air when they arrived. Máir did most of his business out of his home, but market days were a time for everyone to shine, and Thorin’s mouth began to water from both the sight and the smell of his wares. “Master Thorin, Master Dori,” Máir greeted them with a slight bow. He was relatively new to Ered Luin, having come first to the area of old Tumunzahar from the western Orocarni Mountains not ten years before. His beard was more elaborate than even Dori’s, woven into many small braids that were then woven into each other, and his tightly-curled black hair was plaited with colorful silk ribbons that he had once confided were the latest fashion near his home when he left. 

“Master Máir,” Thorin said, echoing the bow, and heard Dori murmur the same. “Have you anything new to impress me with today?”

“Don’t try to fool me, now,” Máir said with a reproving wag of his finger. “You buy the same sorts of things every time I see you! Flat bread and oat bread, nary a fluffy bun to be found in your stomach, I’ll wager.”

“My nephews gladly gobble the fluffy buns you sell to my sister,” Thorin said, “and I know you’re undercharging her.” He looked over the trays of breads nonetheless and raised an eyebrow when a dish that he hadn’t seen before, sweeter-smelling than a bread to his well-honed nose, caught his eye. 

“What’s that?” Dori asked as he peered around Thorin’s shoulder. His solid chest and belly bumped lightly into Thorin’s back. “I’ve not seen its like.”

“It’s a walnut tree-syrup spoonbread,” said Máir. “I managed to trade some sap sugar and syrup from those tight-fisted Hobbits the last time a trading party came here. They didn’t even have the grace to share recipes with me after taking so much of my coin. This one came from Firebeard tradition, or so I’m told.”

“I _am_ fond of spoonbread,” Dori said. “What was the Firebeard recipe?”

“Now, now. You can’t wheedle recipes out of me, Master Dori. I’d be out of a job if I let you fool me.” Máir’s eyes sparkled, but he belied himself by taking out a spoon and scooping a small piece of the spoonbread onto a piece of cooking paper that he produced. “You taste that, and tell me what you think.”

Dori straightened his back. “I won’t have it said that I shy away from a challenge,” he said, and took a pinch of the spoonbread in his fingers. “Do have some, Master Thorin. I’m sure he meant it for both of us.”

“You don’t need to convince me, Master Dori,” Thorin said, chuckling. He took a piece of spoonbread and put it in his mouth, but then had to close his eyes to appreciate it. There was a certain bitterness from the walnuts, certainly, but the overriding taste was warmly sweet, and under the crisp brown crust on top, the soft pastry nearly melted against his tongue. It was completely unlike any bread he’d ever tasted before. 

“Do you like it, Master Thorin?” Máir asked, voice amused. 

“Very much so,” Thorin said, and opened his eyes. While Máir had his arms crossed over his broad chest and his eyes were crinkling at the corners, Dori still had his piece of bread between his fingers and was simply…staring, that was perhaps the best way to put it. “Master Dori, is something amiss?”

“No. Nothing is wrong.” Dori shook his head slightly, as if forcing himself out of a waking dream. He put his sample of spoonbread in his mouth and, just as Thorin’s had, his eyes immediately fell shut. “Oh,” he said after chewing and swallowing. “Master Máir, you truly are a master at your craft.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” said Máir. “Will you be wanting to buy any, then?”

“Certainly, if Master Thorin agrees,” Dori said, with a look up at Thorin. “Although I protested, he insisted on paying for my lunch, and he is a generous king indeed!”

“My status as king is debatable,” Thorin muttered. Then, louder, he said “But I have no objection to making a meal of your spoonbread, Máir. Your price?”

“A silver for the whole pan, ten coppers for a Dwarvish portion,” said Máir. 

“That won’t do at all!” said Dori, suddenly businesslike in a way that could only come from years of experience haggling. “Now, Master Máir, I’ve been purchasing bread for growing Dwarrow for years, and I know the worth of a loaf, even one as fine as yours. We’ll be paying no more than three coppers per portion.”

“You’re looking to rob me and I won’t have it. I’ll not go lower than nine.” Máir rolled up his sleeves and brusquely dusted flour off his hands. “You’re mistaken if you think that you’ll be sold flour that fine for any price. No one will give you the means to go behind my back with this recipe.”

“I’m acquainted with Glóin Gróinul, you know,” Dori retorted, “and he is half-Firebeard.”

“He works with coin, not cookery,” said Máir. “Firebeards guard their recipes more closely than you would think. Besides, even if you could beg the recipe off one, the Hobbits sold their sugar only to me this year. They’re the only source for it, too. This past winter frosted out our walnut trees, if you recall.”

“Fine,” Dori said with a sniff. “Five each.”

“Eight,” Máir countered. “I won’t go any lower. Not even my own family would get a better deal than that. Do you know how long that bread took me?”

“Not nearly long enough to make you lose a profit, you botherer,” Dori snapped, although Thorin heard no true malice in it. He’d heard this sort of exchange often enough, when Dís decided to patronize Sima Dímul’s jewel stall, to smile at it now. “Seven. And we’ll be purchasing two portions, if you recall.”

“Two at seven each?” Máir looked over his pan, his lips moving silently. “You have a deal, Master Dori, but you will owe me for my kindness.”

“I’ll remember your generosity,” Dori said, smiling. 

“As will I,” Thorin said. He took out his coin purse and rummaged inside. The coins inside slipped and clinked between his fingers, and he pulled out the first one he could grasp: a silver. No matter. Máir had undercharged Dís for necessary bread for the lads more often than he could count. “Take this, and don’t bother to change it. You’ve done my family a kindness many times.”

Máir blinked, clearly taken aback. He took the coin and bit it, then held it up to look at. “And Master Dori calls _me_ generous,” he said with a chuckle. “Well, then, your meal.” He cut two slices of spoonbread and put each on a folded square of cooking paper. “Good day. _Gamut manan ai-menu_.”

Thorin bowed and repeated the good-bye, and so did Dori, who picked up both pieces of bread. “Shall we find somewhere to eat, then?” he asked. “I couldn’t possibly allow you to pay for my lunch without asking you to share it.”

“A sound idea,” Thorin said. “However, I believe ‘spoonbread’ requires either a spoon or a place to sit.”

Dori tapped a finger on his chin, lips pursed. “Certainly,” he muttered, “certainly it would be undignified to eat spoonbread in public…hmm.” His lower lip was pinkly plump against his deep auburn beard. Somehow, Thorin found it very difficult to tear his eyes away. “Oh!” His brows unfurrowed and his eyes lit up. “Do you know where the small guild hall is?”

Thorin nodded. “The second side street within the mountain, correct?” In truth, he had been remiss in his duty as king, in that he hadn’t yet visited the small guild hall. The smiths’ guild, yes, and the master craftsmen in the main guild hall, but the smaller guilds that had been established a few years ago still lacked his attention. 

“Yes, just there. I’ve a key.” Dori patted his left hip, which had a gold sunburst embroidered over it. “I’m a member of the threadcrafters’ guild and we use rooms in that hall for our meetings.”

“Mm.” Thorin took another look at the robe. “May I?” he asked as he reached out a hesitant hand towards the sleeve. Was it possible that Dori had sewn such an elaborate piece of clothing? Not even Dís could sew like that, and by his reckoning, she was Dori’s age or older. 

Dori looked at his hand, then up into his eyes. “Maker, you needn’t ask!” he exclaimed. “But…” He weighed the two portions of bread in his hands. “Perhaps we’d best find the guild hall so that I don’t drop our lunch. I would hate to cheat you out of your hard-earned coin.”

“You raise a fair point,” Thorin said. He shaded his eyes against the midday sun and looked up to the mountain that loomed over the marketplace, the mountain in which his people had made their homes in exile. “To the guild hall it is.”

Dori smiled at him and cocked his elbow, although not as far as he had when he didn’t have his hands full. That smile, somehow, was more dazzling every time Thorin saw it, and he couldn’t begin to fathom why. 

They waded their way through the knots of Dwarves attending market, most with full or filling baskets over their arms. Some had Dwarflings in their arms or on their backs, and Thorin had to smile at the sight of the wee ones. Fretful, scarred, missing teeth, one missing chunks of hair from where a sibling had surely pulled at it – all of them were beautiful, because they were solid and alive. There were so many who had died, or who had never had the opportunity to be born when young Dwarves were cut down too soon. 

The open entrance to the mountain was before them, and then they were inside. Lit torches in brackets on the wall sputtered at their entrance, but it was cool and dark inside otherwise. “Well, we won’t be disturbed,” said Dori, and inclined his head down the entrance path, towards the great atrium from which all the streets diverged. 

“Indeed,” said Thorin, and followed Dori’s sure-footed steps through the atrium and down a side street to a square building carved into the rock. They stopped before a plain stone door, of a darker color and finer grain than the hall proper. 

“We’re here,” Dori said (was that a waver of shyness in his voice, or was it only the echo?), and Thorin took the bread from his hands. “Oh. Thank you.” Dori pulled an ornate key from within his robes, opening the door and taking one of the torches that flanked it. “Truly, it’s a shame that you haven’t seen this guild hall yet. It’s fit for a king, I assure you.”

The light from the torch illuminated the walls of the guild hall as Dori moved forward. He was, Thorin saw, quite correct. “Who carved the walls?” he asked. “Did you hire a stonecarver?” There was a round stone table in the center of the room; he crossed to it and placed the breads there so that he could move closer and admire the stonework. 

“Oh, some here, some there,” Dori said, and came to stand beside Thorin. The shadows from the flickering torch into his hand seemed to deepen the carvings on the walls. “This section was mostly Avís’s work. She’s talented enough for the stonecarvers’ guild, but since her wife took with child, she’s not had the time.” He traced over a knotted square with the palm of one hand. “Although I do agree, it’s a lovely example of Dwarvish symbols. No leaves or flowers or anything of the like.”

“You seem like someone who would enjoy leaves and flowers,” Thorin pointed out. He rather hoped that he could get Dori to puff up a bit, never mind that his ‘Amad would be ashamed of his behavior if she lived. 

“Well, I never!” Dori thrust his chest and chin forward. His dark eyes glittered. “I certainly do not enjoy Elvish pursuits.”

“You certainly fought like an elf with Master Máir.” Thorin let the smile threatening to come onto his face have its way. 

“That _botherer_ ,” Dori said, an echo of his earlier insult. “Charging us seven for _food_. Bread would have been too expensive at three, no matter how fine!” It was barely an insult, which made it all the more endearing. “Speaking of him,” he added with a sigh, “we ought to eat before the bread gets cold and ruins his fine work altogether.”

“You say he’s a botherer and a thief, but you call his work fine,” Thorin said. “What do you _really_ think?” He picked up his lunch and inhaled again, satisfied himself that it hadn’t cooled off enough to be disgusting, and bit into it as neatly as he could. It was rather a gooey bread, so he could eat only so neatly; soon, he found himself with bits of sugary bread in his beard. 

Dori was in a similar situation. The blush that came onto his cheeks every time he tried to unobtrusively brush crumbs away, such a vulnerable gesture, made Thorin’s chest feel warm all over again. “This is a fine bread,” he said about halfway in, then wiped his mouth. “I wish I’d bought some for my brothers.”

“How old is your youngest brother?” Thorin asked, then cleared his throat – he’d eaten far too fast. The sound echoed up to the high ceiling. 

“Oh, Ori,” said Dori, his tone softening with fondness. “Ori is just twenty, and he’s already been taking lessons with Balin Fundinul for five years. Master Balin is a kinsman of yours, I believe.”

“A third cousin,” Thorin said. “Older than I am, and wiser by far.” Balin had been his most steadfast advisor since before the fall of Erebor – in fact, since Grandfather’s madness and Father’s justified fear of the throne had led to more responsibilities falling onto Thorin’s shoulders by the day. The fact that Balin had never had Dwarflings of his own to mentor, as he taught others’ children, was a disappointment evident in the look on his face whenever he saw Glóin Gróinul’s baby son. 

“Ori is grateful for his help,” Dori said. “I make sure of that.” He finished the last few bites of his spoonbread with a deep, throaty noise of pleasure, and turned away. He was a poor liar, even with his body language; Thorin could tell that he was trying to unobtrusively lick his fingers clean. The sight made the seam of his trousers press uncomfortably into his prick, and he was suddenly very aware of how alone they were in the cool quiet of the guild hall. 

“Master Dori,” he said. “Dori.”

Dori turned back around. “Hmm?”

He didn’t know what possessed him to say it; the only explanation might be that one of the Valar had decided to play a trick on him by hiding his ability to think. “I would like to have you,” he said, “here. Against the wall. You are very beautiful.”

Dori’s eyes widened, and for what felt like an age, he said nothing. Thorin felt a cold pinch in his chest, as if his blood had abruptly cooled. He had said the wrong thing entirely. “I’m flattered,” Dori said. “Truly, you flatter me.”

“But you have no interest,” Thorin interrupted. “I understand. I…I apologize for propositioning you, then.” He’d put his foot in the forge this time. Now he would have to do damage control regarding the brother’s lessons, and assure Dori that his kinsmen had naught to do with his interests, and any number of other unpleasant tasks. 

“No, I’m not saying that at all!” Dori exclaimed. “Goodness, I was simply accepting your compliment. Those weren’t empty words.” He reached across the table and put his hand on top of Thorin’s. Looking down, Thorin was surprised to find that Dori’s hand was even larger than his. “I’m flattered _and_ I would like that, too.”

“You…you…” Words failed him, Westron and Khuzdul both. It had been so long since he’d had a tumble with anyone. If he recalled correctly, the last time had been just before they’d settled in Ered Luin, on a cold, windy night when married couples and courting couples alike crawled into each other’s bedrolls to warm each other. He and Dwalin had held each other all through the night, hands moving to please each other’s bodies and paps and pricks. 

“Yes, I.” Dori looked far too pleased with himself. “I’d quite like to be taken against the wall, Master Thorin, and no mistake. I only ask that you don’t muss my beard.”

“Your beard?” Thorin repeated. 

Dori patted his chin and stroked two fingers along the clean, shining line of one braid. “It does take me quite a bit of time to keep the braids from coming out crooked. If you don’t mind.”

Thorin pressed the side of a finger against his mouth and tried to think of what to say. It had been so many years, and Dori’s beauty would steal any Dwarf’s ability to plot out their next move. “Would you like a kiss?” he finally asked. “May I do that?”

“Oh, you needn’t ask to do that,” Dori said – confoundingly, paradoxically – and then he surged forward, and his full mouth pressed lightly to Thorin’s lips. 

Thorin’s eyes fell closed. He leaned forward and felt Dori grasp his hands, supporting his weight; he was quietly grateful for that, because he felt as though his bones had disappeared. Dori opened his mouth and so Thorin did, too. For a long time they stood there, mouths sealed to each other, lips and tongues working, hands clasped. Thorin slowly surged his hips forward and back, and felt an echoing press of Dori’s hip against him each time. 

Then Dori pulled away, leaving Thorin with his lips open and wet. The cool air against his mouth was not welcome, and made him open his eyes. “I’d like to see what you have in your trousers,” Dori said – so casually, as if Thorin’s prick were the contents of a fine artisan’s stall or a string of boar sausages whose quality was questionable. “May I take them down?”

“Yes,” Thorin said. What else could he say? 

“Thank you.” Dori kissed him again, pulled back much too soon, and sank smoothly to his knees as he pulled Thorin’s trousers down to his ankles. “You have a fine gentleman,” he said. 

“Gentle- _Dwarf_ ,” Thorin said before he could chastise himself for correcting a fellow Dwarf about how to address his cock. Cocks shouldn’t be addressed, in his admittedly limited experience. “How much time have you been spending with the Mannish?”

“Enough to know a good long look can tell you a great many things about the state of a Dwarf’s health,” Dori said, “or a Man’s.” The statement was enigmatic, but the kiss he bestowed upon the tip of Thorin’s cock certainly was not. 

Thorin moaned and thrust his hands out to bury them in Dori’s hair, but remembered at the last moment that Dori didn’t want his hard work disturbed. This left him clenching his hands like the strange water-dwelling insect that a band of sea-Hobbits had once brought through the market, its claws tied shut with twine that it had soon managed to slip off. A _lobster_ , they’d called it. He could do nothing more than thrust forward awkwardly and open and close his fists when Dori kissed his prick up and down, over and over again. 

Nonetheless, there was something calculatingly practical in Dori’s attentions, which subtly showed the true intent behind what he was doing. “I carry nothing,” Thorin puffed between kisses, “no discharge or pustules.”

“Even a king might lie,” said Dori. “But I’m glad to see that you didn’t.” He played with Thorin’s foreskin a bit, using a rough thumb to push it back and forth. Thorin didn’t know where he would have gotten such calluses, but they felt wonderful. “No pustules indeed, and a fine prick it is, too.” He sucked the head of Thorin’s prick into his warm, wet mouth, and Thorin gasped. 

Enough was enough. He would not be teased. Wrenching himself away from Dori’s mouth, Thorin pulled Dori up by the shoulders and the collar and pulled him into a hard, deep kiss. There was a sharp, musky taste in Dori’s mouth that hadn’t been there before, and as the kiss enthusiastically continued, Thorin realized that he was tasting his own lust. The realization hardened him even more, and he rubbed his painfully-throbbing prick against Dori’s belly. 

“I haven’t any oil,” Dori whispered. His soft beard rubbed against Thorin’s bottom lip with the movement of his mouth. “I’m terribly sorry. We can’t…there are things…”

“You needn’t worry,” said Thorin. “I have some.” There was a bottle of neat’s-foot oil in his breeches, boiled and bottled from the bones of the placid animals the Hobbits led to Ered Luin a few times a year. He used it to polish leather scabbards until they gleamed, or to put a sheen on a blade and preserve it from water if it had to be delivered a long distance. He’d never been so grateful for it before. 

Dori shivered, and his entire body seemed to ripple. It was an entirely pleasant sensation. “Then you’re well-prepared as well as lovely, my king.”

“Thorin.” Thorin kissed each corner of Dori’s mouth, then the full, pouting center. “Call me Thorin.” He kissed Dori’s nose. “Would you have me in your arse or between your thighs? Or neither?”

“With the size of your prick?” Dori kissed Thorin’s chin. “My brothers would notice how slowly I’d walk after!” He gave a chuckle, far lower and deeper than his usual voice. “My thighs, Master Thorin. Put your prick between my thighs and fuck me there.”

“Mm.” Thorin nudged his knee against the bulge between Dori’s legs. “Your speech grows – ah! – filthier the harder your cock grows.” It was getting difficult to speak. Large as his own prick might be (and yes, even he had to admit it was large), Dori’s cock was more than respectable in eagerness. 

Dori’s face went pink. “I can’t help it,” he said. “This is what you do to me.” He loudly cleared his throat and stepped away. Thorin went to follow him, only to stumble and nearly fall over the forgotten trousers around his ankles. Dori laughed and caught him by catching his hand. “Steady there, my dear.”

“Fair is fair,” Thorin answered. “It’s past time you took down your trousers.” He could already imagine how temptingly plump Dori’s thighs would be, how warm, how slippery when he oiled them and slid his prick between them. “And perhaps your other clothing as well, unless you want it stained.”

Dori shook his head and skillfully stepped out of his trousers, then pulled his tunic and undershirt over his head. The undershirt was fine linen, Thorin could see, embroidered as finely as the tunic. Dori truly had an enviable skill with a needle. “No, that would be too humiliating,” he said, “and Nori would never let me hear the end of it.”

Thorin couldn’t keep his jaw from dropping. Dori had a fine, sturdy, hairy body, as close to the ideal of what made a beautiful Dwarf as he had ever seen. His belly protruded, his thighs were thick and strong, and his arse was round and soft, and that same silver-shot auburn hair covered everything. Dori’s hard prick stood nearly straight up between his legs, with the head pink and exposed. “You are…beautiful,” Thorin told him. 

Dori covered his mouth, looked away, and went pink all the way down to his toes. “Well, then,” he said, “let’s see you.”

Fair was fair. Thorin shucked his shirt and boots, and stood in front of Dori in nothing more than what Mahal gave him. It was damned cold here without clothing, he realized as his nipples hardened. “I’ve done what you asked,” he said. Curse it all, why did his words always come out wrong? 

He didn’t think Dori minded, though, if the way Dori strode forward and kissed him again was any indication. This kiss didn’t last as long as the previous one had, as Dori pulled away – businesslike – far too soon. “You are a lovely gem, and I’m proud to have such a Dwarf as my king,” he said. His eyes were soft. “Now, I believe there was talk of fucking my thighs?”

Such words in such a prim tone. Thorin might have laughed if he didn’t have such a stand. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, of course,” and he fumbled to pull the vial of oil out of his trousers. “Would you, ah, care to apply it yourself, or do you want me to do it?”

“Oh, to have your hands between my thighs,” said Dori with a faint smile. “Please go on, Master Thorin.” He braced himself against the far wall, hands at his sides, legs spread enough that Thorin could see the separated curves of his arse past his heavily-hanging stones. Although the torchlight didn’t allow him to see details, Thorin could still tell that Dori’s nipples were hard. 

On a whim, he used his teeth to pop the cork out of the vial, and smiled when he saw Dori’s mouth open and tremble. It gave him the inner strength to move forward and kneel in front of Dori, coating his fingers in the pleasantly pungent oil and smoothing them across Dori’s fleshy inner thighs. A deep musk rose from between them, deeper and more animal than the scent of the rendered oil; Thorin closed his eyes and sniffed deeply to fully take in the smell of Dori’s need for him. 

“Tease,” said Dori unsteadily. “Botherer.”

“Now I’m the botherer,” Thorin said. He slid his palms around the width of Dori’s thighs, cupped his arse, and brought his face forward to run his nose along Dori’s eager prick. It smelled better, tangier, up close. As he moved, he could feel the liquid at the tip wet the side of his nose and cheek, and Dori gasped when the head bumped into the corner of Thorin’s mouth. 

Dori tugged at Thorin’s hair. “You are _wicked_.”

“Fair is fair,” Thorin echoed, and stood. “Will you squeeze your legs together for me, Dori?”

In lieu of a verbal answer, Dori pushed his thighs together with an audible snap. The flesh wobbled and bulged around the line where his legs met, glistening with the oil Thorin had applied. Save for his open mouth and the heaving of his chest, he could have been a Dwarven statue of old in the time before Arda was broken across the lever of the Blue Mountains, when Dwarven craftspeople created without fear of retribution from Man or Elf. 

Thorin shook his head. This was not his grandfather’s court, where poetry like that would have been welcomed. For all the strength he carried in his core and the rudeness into which he eventually descended, Thrór had been at heart a monarch, not a warrior roughened by time and experience. “Thank you,” he said as he pushed himself off the cold stone floor and stood in front of Dori, so close that their stiff pricks nearly touched. “Will we…may I…”

“Bend your knees a bit,” Dori interrupted him, and Thorin complied. “Yes. There. _Now_ …” He grabbed Thorin’s hips and pulled him in close, letting their cocks meet. “Oh, yes, _mmm_ , like that.”

Thorin could hear him only because Dori’s mouth was close to his ear. Otherwise, the cry he let out when his cock met Dori’s would have drowned out any sound but the blood roaring in his head. “Dori!” His hips were shaking so badly that he had to use his hands to maneuver his erection below the bulge of Dori’s prick and stones to the slick cleft of his thighs. It was hot, and wet with sweat and oil; soon, he thought, he would wet it with more than that. 

Dori’s grip on his hips turned tight as an iron clamp, and with a high, soft cry, he began to thrust. His drooping stones glided back and forth across the top of Thorin’s prick every time he moved; it was indescribable, almost as if Thorin were caught in a clasp between his stone-purse and his plump flesh. “Oh, yes,” he said, “oh, Thorin, _yes_ …”

He didn’t know how Dori could speak at a time like this. It felt too good to say a word. Thorin only moaned and let his head drop to Dori’s shoulder, where the sweat of Dori’s skin and the sweat of his own face mingled and grew with the heat of his breath. He braced his hands against the wall to either side of Dori’s belly and pumped backward and forward, up and down, wherever his prick could go in the slight spread between Dori’s thighs. 

The torch on the far wall was guttering. Thorin could tell by the flickering shadows across Dori’s face and body. Fingers of darkness and light reached between them, lightning-quick, and sweat and pearls of arousal both gathered between them where no light touched at all. He leaned hard against one hand and used the other to stroke first Dori’s stones and then his own with the pad of one thumb. 

“Goodness,” Dori cried, “good _gracious_ , I, I’m –“ and then he said nothing more. His tightly-drawn stones and prick jumped under Thorin’s exploring fingers, and then his release covered them as he peaked. 

Warm wetness dripped down to Thorin’s prick, and with a groan of desire, he pushed his hand up against the wall hard enough that his wrist began to ache, and thrust his hips with abandon. “Dori,” he said, and it came out a growl, then again, “ _Dori_!” He was dripping – he was falling apart – he could _burst_ any moment. 

Dori’s chest shuddered with heavy breaths, too heavy to allow speech even in a seasoned soldier, but he brought a shaking hand down and thumbed the junction between Thorin’s prick and stones with far more skill than Thorin remembered employing. The pressure in the base of Thorin’s prick suddenly released, and he slammed his hand against the wall as hard as he could with the force of his unexpected climax. 

When it was all over, Thorin found himself reluctant to peel his body away from Dori’s. “Time well spent," he mumbled into Dori’s hair, which despite his best effort had become more than slightly disheveled in the course of their fuck. 

“Quite so,” Dori said. He unstuck them with a few smooth movements, much to Thorin’s relief – and pain when their accumulated stickiness pulled at his body hair – and sucked at the fingers of the hand that had been touching Thorin. “I must say, you taste even better after a peak.”

Thorin bit his fist. It was unfair of Dori to say things that threatened to rouse his cock again, so soon after peaking the first time. “Thank you,” he said. There was little protocol that dictated what one could say when presented with that sort of compliment. “Have you other errands to run?”

Dori bent and took a handkerchief from his discarded robe. “Yes,” he said, “quite a few. I’ve got to visit the thread stalls to make a gift for Mistress Avís and her little one.” He licked the handkerchief and dabbed it briskly between his thighs. “I don’t believe Mistress Ilána will have sold out yet.”

Thorin looked down at himself. Apart from lingering stickiness, it seemed as though the majority of their spend had gotten on Dori, so he picked up his clothing and began to dress. He could sponge himself off when he reached home. “I wasn’t aware Mistress Avís could sire Dwarflings.”

“She can,” Dori said, pulling on his trousers, “and a finer Dwarfling will never be born again. I hope it inherits her talent, else she’ll have no one to teach. So many of the little ones are dunderheads when it comes to stonework.” He sighed, clucked his tongue, and put on his robe. “It must come of so much time spent aboveground.”

“Then I should visit the stalls for a gift as well,” Thorin said. Grandfather had told him more times than he could count that a king needed to go out among their subjects and know them. His motive, Thorin suspected, had been to prevent an uprising, but that same sort of kinship was called for in this exile. 

Dori beamed at him. “I’ll take you,” he said. He held out an arm, and Thorin took it, and together they left the guild-hall. 

The torch was found dead the following morning, but without a trace of who had been there the previous day, no one knew whom to blame.

**Author's Note:**

> The Khuzdul used here is the Dwarvish translation for, respectively, Belegost and Nogrod. Máir's phrase means "Good day to you."


End file.
